


palpable as longing

by aosc



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 23:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13154625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: “You always said Galahd was something special,” says Pelna. He doesn’t stop smiling. A light sheen of snow is gathering in his hair, melting on his temples and tracking down his jaw. “You weren’t lying.”





	palpable as longing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> *jumps up from behind foliage* so do y’all have a minute to talk about our lord and savior satan from our holy land of rarepair!hell
> 
> anyway this is my blood sacrifice to that very special place in fandom hell, for mine and ghostl0rd’s holiday exchange. the prompt was basically: pelna, seeing snow for the very first time, and digging it (almost) as much as he not so secretly digs nyx
> 
> yep
> 
>  
> 
> MUSIC:
> 
> hey now — london grammar  
> palms — tay salem  
> open arms — rkcb feat. demo taped

* * *

  
V-Day had brought a lot of questions and nary an answer to go with them; what’d they do now, when the thing they’d done for so long, was just over?

 

Nyx had knocked on Lib’s door at 4:50 as per usual on the following Monday, still rubbing sleep grit out of his eyes, his boots halfway tied on and his jacket slung over one shoulder. Libertus had opened, on rote, similarly kitted out. 

 

He’d yawned, “’S go, hero,” a cross between exhaustion and acceptance, and stepped across his doorstep, before they’d both realized that they had nowhere _to_ go.

 

Not that the gymnasium wouldn’t be available, and not that the finely tuned Insomnian machine that was the army and spec ops branches would be put out of commission. But whereas the Crownsguard was a lifetime gig, theirs was one borne out of necessity, in the midst of an active, age-old conflict, which had spread so far and so wide across the Lucian land, annexed thousands of acres and razed hundreds upon hundreds of villages, that the government hadn’t had much of a choice in the matter.

 

And upon the morning of the day following the signing, opening cold and clear, the sky breaking open into blood orange and pink, they’d had to slowly retreat into the relative warmth of their respective apartments again.

 

Libertus had leaned into his door, still shut at half mast. “Can’t believe we won’t be able to whine about our shitty strategizing day with the captain tonight at Yama’s,” he said.

 

Nyx snorted. “You realize you just jinxed your day, right?”

 

Libertus waved a hand. “Eh. What’s there to jinx? We’re not at war anymore.”

 

Nyx conceded the point. “See you tonight,” he said, twisting on his heel. Libertus grunted, shutting the door in Nyx’s wake.

 

*

 

“’Glaives.” The King’s voice is soft, even as it extends to the very back of the room, encompasses the arching roofs and far walls. Nyx falls into parade rest on rote.

 

“Yesterday’s signing of the Lucis— Niflheim peace treaty was a monumental occurrence. Not only because the war, which has plagued our nations for a great many years, has ended. But because today marks the day when you will finally be able to return to your homes. Niflheim forces are retreating from within our borders, as per the agreed upon treaty terms. The unlawful occupation of Lucian territories has ended. By the end of the week, relief efforts will be able to move into the Cavaugh and Duscae regions, to aid with restoration and rebuilding.”

 

King Regis pauses. Nyx has rested his gaze on a spot above his shoulder, but he is, part unwillingly, drawn in to meet the King’s eye.

 

“The Crown would like to thank each and every one of your for your service. It has been faultless. It has been devoted. Every time you have put yourselves in danger you have done so for all of the people of Lucis. There is nothing as selfless, nor as brave. Because of these commendable actions on all of your parts, the Crown would like to formally extend to each and every one of you— the offer to choose.”

 

“The Kingsglaive, as it were, will be no more. It will merge with the Lucian Army. But there will be a place for you to continue serving, should you choose to do so. And for anyone who does not, I will say this: on the behalf of the Crown, and of the people of Insomnia, as well as for the remainder of the country: we thank you, and commend you, for your service. It will not be cast in shadow, nor forgotten.”

 

*

 

“So, what’re your plans?”

 

Crowe is waving for another six shots. Libertus is in frantic discussion with Luche over whether or not it’s worth staying on serving only to get on the army’s payroll. Meanwhile, Nyx is pleasantly buzzed, three shots and a beer into their impromptu celebrations. He’s leaning into his chair, head lolling sideways to watch Pelna, seated to his right. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, intricate tattoo designs peeking up below the washed out cotton of the Henley.

 

Pelna swallows another mouthful of lager before he answers. “Haven’t decided yet,” he says.

 

“If you’re going home?” Nyx eyes him out of his periphery.

 

Pelna shrugs. He turns to Nyx. There’s something earnest in his expression, something almost cracked open. “I don’t know if there’s much to return to. You know?”

 

Nyx remembers them having this conversation during one of their first outings as recruits. Pelna’s parents escaped Eusciello when the Glacian fell. When the desolate desert landscape glazed over with ice and permafrost, turned overnight into a perpetual blizzard. They’d spent a few weeks on a merchant’s ship, rounding Niflheim’s southern peninsula, before crossing over to Galdin Quay. They eventually settled on the border between Leide and Cavaugh, where the weather had been dry and the landscape flat, the place in Lucis most reminiscent of where they’d originally come from.

 

Nyx’s always been a damn coward in regards to what he wants. Mostly, he’s been able to blame it on the war: the platonic bonds he’s forged with his team run deep enough as it is; pursuing any romantic attachments when he’d spent the better part of a decade deployed in enemy territory would’ve most likely only spelled disaster, if not just heartbreak. Definitely so when that person is on his team. It would’ve been unfair, so Nyx had shuffled those of his traitorous emotions to the very back of his mind, buried them firmly and deeply, and not waited for a what if-scenario to maybe, one day, actually happen.

 

But of course, suddenly, it happens.

 

Pelna’s lower lip is spit slick. His eyes are trained on Nyx’s face, dark and intent. Nyx fights not to shiver.

 

He clears his throat. “There’s always a place to return to,” he says. His voice is hoarser than he intends.

 

Pelna hums. He doesn’t look away. “You’re going home,” he says, “To Galahd.” It’s not a question. To Nyx, there’s never been anything about it to question. He nods.

 

“The time’s come for you to become a hometown hero, huh.” Pelna’s smile is slanted, halfway stuck between something and the other.

 

There’s a crossroads here. Nyx’s heart’s banging against his ribs. He wonders, briefly, halfway between drunk and nonsensical, if it’s audible. He’s heading towards a precipice. Either there to hurl yourself over, or to skid over, haul yourself up across the edge again.

 

“Galahd’s not just for the people who were born there,” Nyx blurts out, the words spilling out before he has a chance to swallow back on them. He breathes in. He remembers, sensate memories clambering on the inside of his collar, the smell of the riverbank, muddy but clear. The eucalyptus permeate in the green clusters preceding the tall forest that leads up to Pellam Peak. “It’ll be what we make it into.”

 

*

 

Their recon unit ships out a week later. The brunt of the team, as it were, in four army commission Humvees. Their cargo is supply only. Nyx has stripped himself of armor and ammo, of his weapon’s belt and the knife sheaths spanning his thighs.

 

Pelna is stretched out in the seat next to him. He’s lean in only black, stripped of the bulk of his Kevlar vest and plating. His hair has been sheened short. Three days’ worth of stubble is darkening the length of his jaw. He’s softly humming a tune Nyx isn’t familiar with, eyes tracking the road as they make their way out of the city, heading east.

 

The passing landscape is frost bitten. November is cold in Insomnia, but mostly sunny. Only the mornings are so cold that the temperature drops below zero. It still only rains, soft and pattering, whenever there’s precipitation.

 

Pelna shifts in his seat. “You think anything about what we’ll see when we get there?” he asks.

 

Nyx accelerates up the arch of the bridge. He shifts the car into fifth gear. The cityscape blurs into an indistinguishable lump of charcoals and mirrors.

  

“Home,” he replies, eventually. “In one way or another.”

 

*

 

When they drive past the abandoned checkpoint later that evening, when twilight has passed in pale reds and dark greys, given way for dusk, it starts to snow.

 

True, it’s been some time since Nyx found himself caught in heavy snowfall, but there’s nothing unfamiliar about it. The heavy flakes, wet and large, swirl before the windshield. Whorls of it spiral before the weak navigation of the headlights, yellow against the rapidly paling ground. It makes something settle, aching but true, in his stomach, as he carefully steers the Humvee up over the curve of a hill.

 

“Nyx…” comes Pelna, to his right. His tone is low, and when Nyx briefly turns towards him, angling himself away from the steering wheel. Pelna’s back is facing towards Nyx. He’s fitted himself closely to the window.

 

“You see anything?” asks Nyx, because his instinctual reaction will be to trust a sniper’s visage, no matter how unfamiliar this land’ll be to him.

 

“That’s… Sort of my point,” says Pelna. His breath is fogging the window. “I don’t.”

 

Nyx frowns. “Sorry. I don’t follow.”

 

“Stop the car,” says Pelna. His voice is still a low scratch in his throat, tone indistinguishable to Nyx. He obeys, because, once again, sniper’s vision, sniper’s instincts. Nyx’d follow Pelna into a Coeurl’s lair blindfolded, and still manage to feel relatively optimistic about the outcome.

 

Pelna unfastens his seat belt and slips from his seat, once Nyx has veered off road and rolled the car to a slow stop. The snowfall is only coming on heavier, thickening out across the murkily lit landscape. Nyx gets out after him, tentatively shutting his door. He tries the ground beneath his boot; the soil is frozen, solidly packed when he tries to scuff it.

 

“Six…” comes from around the bend of the Humvee.

 

Pelna hasn’t strayed. He’s rooted to the spot just beside the car. His face is tipped upwards. His arms are stretched out, his hands splayed. Snowflakes are singling down to land in the cups of his palms, their shapes minutely visible before they melt on Pelna’s skin.

 

“Pel?” asks Nyx. He’s slowly crossing the distance between them. “Hey, man, you okay?”

 

When Pelna turns to face Nyx, his grin is wide, blinding. Nyx ignores the way his heart leaps into his throat. How he has to quell a shiver.

 

“You always said Galahd was something special,” says Pelna. He doesn’t stop smiling. A light sheen of snow is gathering in his hair, melting on his temples and tracking down his jaw. “You weren’t lying.”

 

Nyx refrains from pointing out that there’s nothing to see; the landscape is blurred out white. The forest surrounding Pellam Peak, farther to the north, is a massive dark streak, and the mountain is barely visible through the snowy fog. There’s nothing to see of what makes Galahd special; only snow. Snow, which appears to be what makes Pelna close his eyes and tip his chin upwards again. His lashes stutter shut, long and dark against his skin.

 

Nyx wants; suddenly and fiercely, he wants. It’s more than a feeling, it’s the innate knowledge that if he doesn’t at least try to get it, he’ll be deprived of enjoying the minute ways in which Pelna’s voice tips over from reverent and into quietly happy. How his throat works when he swallows, silhouetted here in the pale light stemming from how the snow lights up the surrounding scenery. How they’re here, standing a ways from where Nyx grew up, where he gave up his heart and his soul to the old ways of the land beneath his feet. To where, somewhere far beneath the ground, the world tree’s roots are entwined, and split, between the continents of Eos.

 

When Nyx looks up again, Pelna is studying him. There’s a stray snowflake melting in his left eyebrow. He’s faintly smiling.

 

The kiss, as it happens, feels as natural as turning to Pelna on the battlefield, innately and always finding him in a spot close enough for aid. It’s as right as Nyx wants it to be. He scratches his fingers through the short cropped hairs on the back of Pelna’s neck. Pelna tilts his head, breathing into Nyx’s mouth. He puts a hand on Nyx’s elbow, and licks on the seam of his lips. Nyx swallows his groan, involuntarily big in his throat. He maneuvers himself closer to where Pelna is radiating heat, fitting one leg between Pelna’s.

 

Pelna chuckles as they draw apart, low and somewhat breathless. “Is this how you snag a hero of your own?”

 

Nyx raises an eyebrow. “You planning on writing a book?”

 

Pelna smirks. He swipes at where the snow has melted into tendrils at his temple. “Nah,” he says, after some time, “I think I’m good, keeping that to myself.”

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> as always, i’m on [tumblr](http://ddelline.tumblr.com).


End file.
